


game winner

by scientific



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Post 3.26, Press Conference, and shitty is loving it, not sure where this is headed but i'll figure it out, supportive SMH, they're so dramatic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-08 15:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13460826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scientific/pseuds/scientific
Summary: For the first time in the past year, being outed was the last thing on Bitty’s mind. Which was ironic, because he was kissing Jack Zimmermann in front of every sports channel on the continent, and he had never been more out in his life.---Jack and Bitty kissed at center ice. And they just might get away with it, too.





	1. fleeing the scene

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure where I'm going with this tbh but here's? Some stuff?  
> Treat them like vignettes if you want  
> I don't like the title but I can't think of titles so

For the first time in the past year, being outed was the last thing on Bitty’s mind. Which was ironic, because he was kissing Jack Zimmermann in front of every sports channel on the continent, and he had never been more  _ out _ in his life.

Bitty pulled out of the kiss, laughing breathlessly; Jack was smiling widely, pure exuberance spread across his face. It was good to see him so happy; for the past few weeks, the stress of playoffs and the Cup had weighed upon him, and Bitty knew that, perfectionist that he was, Jack would’ve carried a chip on his shoulder for a long while if the Falconers had lost this game.

Distantly, Bitty was aware of the crowd around them; the roar of the audience still in the stands heightened to a crescendo. They were going berserk, and when he spun on the spot, the frictionless ice making the turn easy, he could see why. The jumbotron was playing a live feed of him and Jack, and, based on the pandemonium around them - which was intense, even for a Stanley Cup post-game - the cameras had been broadcasting them for, well, a while. 

“Uh oh,” Jack murmured, the smile still plastered across his face. “We should find George - and get out of here while we still can.” 

“Jack,” Bitty said, pointing past him. “‘While we still can’ means  _ now. _ ” Several reporters were already headed towards them, microphones outstretched, shimmying carefully across the ice.

“Oh - yeah. Er, let’s go to the locker room - we can leave through the players’ entrance.” Jack reached out and took Bitty’s hand, slowly skating off; Bitty ran after him, more graceful on the ice than the reporters who were following them, even though he was wearing sneakers. They made their way through the crowd hastily, shoving people without pausing to apologize, though Jack - ever the Canadian - muttered a steady stream of “sorry”s as they passed.

Jack pulled Bitty past two burly security guards on either side of the entrance tunnel; once they reached the locker room, the speed bonus they’d had against the reporters was gone, since Jack was now awkwardly penguin-walking around on his skates. Laughing, Bitty leaned against the frame of one of the stalls while Jack tugged the skates off. He could still hear the crowd yelling outside; when he poked his head out into the tunnel, he saw reporters and cameras gathered by the entrance, the two security guards standing firm in front of it. One of the microphone-wielding reporters spotted him and opened her mouth to yell a question before Bitty ducked back inside the locker room to avoid it.

Inside, Jack had shucked off his hockey gear and was waiting for him in sweatpants and a t-shirt, a duffel bag tucked under his arm. “Ready to go, Bits?” he asked. “Missing anything?”

“Um,” Bitty said, feeling his jean pockets. “Shitty has my phone.”

Jack stifled a laugh. “Wow. Surprised you’re managing so well.”

“Oh, now don’t you chirp me while we’re fleeing the press, Jack Zimmerman!” Bitty chided, wagging a finger. “It’s probably for the best, anyway. Last thing I want right now is -”

“Come on, let’s not worry about any of that ‘till we’re out of here,” Jack suggested. “I have my phone, which is all we really need.”  


“How are we gonna get out of here without anyone noticing?” 

Jack winked, a sparkle in his eye. “I’ve arranged a ride for us, no worries.”

Bitty followed Jack out of the back of the locker room, through unfamiliar hallways; he realized with a jolt that he’d never actually been in the Falcs’ facility. The closest he’d come was Tater’s “guided” tours on FalcsTV. Eventually, Jack led Bitty to a loading bay; Bitty had to smile at the irony of that. 

“Reminds me of all those times at Faber,” Jack chuckled, echoing Bitty’s thoughts. He opened the door, scanning outside before nodding. “Coast is clear!” Bitty peered outside after him, his face breaking into a grin at the sight of Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, and Holster all piled into Shitty’s reasonably-sized sedan. Lardo was squeezed between Ransom and Holster, while Shitty leaned against the wheel and gestured grandly to the empty passenger seat; Jack got into the car, and Bitty followed him, climbing into his lap and slamming the door as Shitty revved the engine unnecessarily and took off.

“Shitty B. Knight, drive  _ carefully! _ ” Bitty yelped, clinging to Jack as Shitty swerved out of the parking lot, tires screeching on the asphalt. “There’s no one following us, no need to -  _ ah! _ ” He covered his eyes as the car shot out onto the main road. 

“Bits, it’s for the  _ drama  _ of it all,” Shitty proclaimed. 

“It had to fit the moment!” Ransom piped up from the backseat. 

Bitty couldn’t see Jack’s face, but he could hear the smirk in his voice as he inquired, “What do you mean, ‘fit the moment?’”

“So dramatic!” Shitty hollered, one-handing the steering wheel and making Bitty want to hide his face again. “Jack Laurent Zimmerman, the Hockey God himself, and Bitty Bits Bittleford coming out to the entire world on national television after the Falcs win the Stanley Cup! In high definition! And then making a desperate getaway to avoid the press with their college pals!”

“This moment will go down in Samwell history!” Ransom exclaimed.

“One for the record books!” Holster yelled, at his normal speaking volume. In the close quarters of Shitty’s car, Bitty’s eardrums were starting to throb.

“Dude, nice,” Lardo said, offering Jack a fistbump. 

Bitty’s heart fluttered in his chest as Shitty’s words began to sink in. “Sweetpea…” he whispered into Jack’s ear.

“Not now, Bits,” Jack replied, planting a kiss on his forehead. “Let’s just enjoy the night, eh? The world can wait ‘till tomorrow.”

Bitty exhaled; Jack was a Stanley Cup winner, and the entire world now knew that they were in love. He twined his fingers with Jack’s as Shitty gunned it down the interstate, whooping wildly and going at least ten miles an hour over the speed limit. His boyfriend was right; yes, tomorrow the weight of the world would be on them. But tonight… well, tonight was going to be  _ legendary. _


	2. presser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack is late to the press conference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi thanks to all who read it, I'm gonna keep updating and just see where it goes! it might get a little angstier from here (at some point) but I promise that, like the comic, there's gonna be happy endings all around

Bitty and Jack woke up at 7:30 am, more or less. Carefully, they picked their way across the debris-strewn living room, trying not to kick any beer bottles or slip on the ping pong balls rolling across the floor of Jack’s apartment. Bitty smiled fondly down at their friends; Lardo was curled up on an armchair with a comforter from the guest room, while Ransom was sprawled on the couch. Gently, Bitty snagged one of the blankets off the back of the sofa and laid it over Ransom before turning and nearly tripping over Holster, buried under another blanket on the floor. Bitty had no idea where Shitty was, but he was sure that the law student was capable of taking care of himself.

“I have to head back to the rink,” Jack mumbled, waving his phone. “Presser. George’s really stressed - I owe it to her to talk. Got your phone, Bits?”

Bitty glanced over at the pool table, where his phone was lying amid the scattered billiard balls (had they even _played_ pool last night? It was a little fuzzy) - he shook his head. “I’m gonna leave it here,” he decided, following Jack to the door. “Are you ready, honey?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Jack responded, leaning down to give Bitty a quick kiss before striding out the door, pulling his Falcs baseball cap down over his eyes.

\---

Cameras flashed as Marty and Thirdy sweated behind the table at the press conference, trying not to look at Jack’s empty seat. Behind the screen, almost the entire team was gathered; out front, it had been decided, it would just be Marty and Thirdy, plus Georgia. She was going back and forth between her spot at the table and the back, where the boys were giving her updates on Jack. Snowy and Tater kept trying Jack’s phone, but he wasn’t picking up - “Zimmboni is driving,” Tater kept assuring everyone in earshot. “Wouldn’t miss presser.”

“How long have you known about Zimmerman?” A reporter called out the question without being asked, prompting a wave of titters to flutter through the crowd. A flash of frustration went through Georgia.

Georgia saw Marty make eye contact with Thirdy, an exasperated look on his face, and quietly prayed that the guys would be able to fend off the press long enough for Jack to arrive. “Any questions about the _game,_ which we won in overtime?”  


“I’m here - I’m here - sorry, sorry -”

There was a burst of applause and even more murmuring in the crowd as Jack stepped up to the table, breathing hard, as if he’d run from the parking lot. Relief flooded Georgia; she saw the door open slightly in the back of the room, and, looking over the crowd, saw Eric Bittle slide into the room and lean against the wall like he was trying to blend into the shadows. He met her gaze and smiled half-heartedly, with the tiniest of waves; Georgia smiled back, but didn’t risk acknowledging him further. Eric wasn’t directly one of her boys, but she felt responsible for him now. She wasn’t sure he knew just how much his life would be shaken by this.

“Jack is here now,” Thirdy said with obvious relief. “So, uh, any questions for him?”

Almost every hand in the room went up.

Jack blinked, clearly overwhelmed; his gaze drifted up to Bittle before he refocused and pointed at a young woman in the front row. 

“Hi, Jack, this is Regina Thompson, NBC Sports,” she introduced herself. “How long have you been together with your significant other?”

“A year,” Jack responded swiftly. “Next question.”

“Jack, Roger Ferros, Bleacher Report. We’ve identified this young man as Eric Bittle, who played on your line at Samwell University - correct me if I’m wrong?”

“That’s correct.”

“How would you say this has impacted the dynamic on either your college team or the Falconers?” 

“It hasn’t,” Jack said, his voice clipped. “Next.”

“Hi Jack, I’m Wesley Parker with ESPN. How does it feel to be the first openly LGBT -”

“Hi Wesley, I’m gonna cut you off right there. Sorry.” There were a few chuckles at the tacked-on apology as Jack’s gaze swept around the room. “The Providence Falconers just won the Stanley Cup. There will be plenty of time to ask prying questions about my personal life later, but for now, can we please just talk about this team?”

The room was quiet for a long moment, with the exception of camera shutters clicking. Then, another hand went in the air, and Jack pointed quickly.

“Mr. Zimmerman, I’m Jennifer Waters with CBS Sports. That game winner - what was going through your mind when you took the shot?” 

Jack’s shoulders visibly sagged as he leaned forward to answer the question; his relief at being asked about something other than Eric was palpable, as was his eagerness to just talk about hockey. The rest of the room seemed to pick up on the shift in energy, and the next five questions were all about the game itself. Marty and Thirdy joined in, with the three captains offering their take on the game, on the opposing team, on their prospects for next year. Georgia sighed; it was far from over, but at least this first, immediate hurdle had been cleared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's parse in the next chapter


	3. rumors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in Las Vegas....

Kent Parson left the bar early. 

That wasn’t something he usually did; typically, he was among the last of the Aces to leave the party. But tonight, Carl was getting on his nerves more than usual, which was really saying something. Between Carl, and the knowing way Scraps had looked at him while showing him the breaking story on social, and that stupid fucking blonde clinging to Jack’s shoulders like a goddamn tree frog. Bittle. Kent remembered him from that party at Jack’s piece-of-shit frat house at Samwell. He and Jack had been leaning up against the wall, a flush rising in Eric Bittle’s cheeks, Jack gently chirping him. Kent should’ve known from the moment he saw them what would inevitably happen.

_ Eric Bittle. _ Kent’s hands, jammed into the pockets of his jeans, closed into fists. Eventually, he’d have to get an Uber, or something. But for now, he was just walking through the streets as though his apartment wasn’t twenty blocks away. 

Kent’s phone buzzed. It buzzed again. He didn’t bother to silence it, merely ignored its insistent vibrating in his pocket. 

Tomorrow, the media would come down on him, too, connecting the dots from Jack’s coming out to his former camaraderie with Kent. The rumors would start flying again, and Kent would have to scowl at cameras - no, no, give them that cocky, self-assured grin - as he insisted, for the millionth time, that he was straight. He’d probably have to get himself a temporary girlfriend, too, just to throw the clickbait-hungry journalists off the scent.

He was practically growling under his breath by the time he reached his apartment. He’d never called that Uber, opting instead to walk the entire way; in all honesty, he hadn’t really noticed what he was doing until he’d arrived at his own front door. He jammed the key in the lock and entered, slamming the door behind himself. Kitt’s head shot up, and she leaped to her feet and jumped down from her spot curled up on the couch. 

Throwing his keys at the kitchen table haphazardly, he wandered over to the couch and collapsed onto it, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t even mad about the press, or about the inconvenience, or whatever. Mostly, he was just mad about the look on Jack’s face as he swept Eric Bittle up into a kiss. How comfortable he looked. How normal the action was for him. They’d probably been together for a while. 

Anger kept burning in his chest until he fell asleep. When he woke up the next morning, it hadn’t faded; the headache pounding in his temples only strengthened it, and the numerous missed calls and texts didn’t help, either. Kent went through his phone methodically, addressing each message like it was a fire that had broken out in his penthouse, dousing each text with “yeah, I saw it - haven’t talked to Zimms yet - of course I’m fine! :)” and then tossing his phone aside and leaning against the wall and thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was short. Up next: the SMH crew faces impending Bittle family drama.


End file.
